


Damaged Goods

by PeachesPoison



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Comfort Sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, Other, Sexual Fantasy, barricade - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachesPoison/pseuds/PeachesPoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot that shows what happens to Eponine in between the numbers "On My Own" and "One Day More" in the 2012 movie adaptation.</p>
<p>"I squint in the light from the café, trying to place the voice to the figure I see in front of me.  He isn’t much taller than me.  He is larger than I am, though most people are, and he seems familiar.  I step closer to him, and the strong stench of alcohol assaults my senses.  I realize the only person this can be. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged Goods

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot. This story is meant to take place within the 2012 movie adaptation of Les Miserables. It takes place immediately after "On My Own" but before the events of the song "One Day More."
> 
> It is my first fic I've published in a long time and my first in the Les Mis fandom.  
> I would love feedback, please review if you can!  
> Huge thanks to my beta reader, Marine (Marine is hope2)!
> 
> -Peaches

I love him. I love him. I love him. This mantra replays in my head over and over as I circle the dingy alleys of Paris. Although it is June, the hour is late and the wind is curiously cold. I walk by the light of the moon and I shiver as a sudden spell of rain falls around me. I haven’t paid attention to how long it has been raining or how long I have been walking, but my clothes have long since been soaked and I am chilled to the bone. 

I am vaguely aware of the soft squish of my boots as I slosh through the puddles and across the uneven streets. Everything is drenched in this miserable rain, save for perhaps the letter I have hidden under my tatters of an undershirt. It is folded into a small square, and I use my arm to hold it tight against my left side. I am fatigued and weak from lack of food and rest. In the dim light, I survey my surroundings until I spy a dry spot of wall under an awning. I walk to the wall and lean against it, then slide down until I am crouched on the ground. 

I am not sure if it was minutes or hours ago that my father’s gang tried to attack the home where the Cosette lives with her father. I grimace as her name flits through my mind. I can hardly believe that she, who my parents used to house in their inn when Cosette and I were children, has crossed my path- and Marius’-in Paris. I can’t understand his fascination with her, but I wasn’t able to let him down when he asked me to find her for him. Before today, I didn’t think I was capable of doing anything that could diminish his joy. Cosette’s letter is poking my side. I know I should take it to Marius, but the second I hand it to him I sentence myself to a life without him. 

I close my eyes to savor a few more bittersweet minutes before I try to find Marius, and a little fall of rain drops from my hair and my eyelashes down to my lap. I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them, making my already tiny frame as compact as I can. The letter in my shirt weighs me down like it is a cursed amulet. I feel the edges of the parchment sharp against my skin. I took the letter with every intention to give it to Marius, but I am torn. I have admired Marius with a furious, one-sided passion for quite some time. Perhaps he pretends not to notice my fondness when my hand grazes the pale and freckled skin of his arm, or when I let myself look into his green eyes just a few seconds longer than I should. Although he masquerades as a humble student when he is with his friends, I know that he is from a wealthy family. There’s lots of things I know, and one of those things is that Marius will never choose to be with an uneducated imp like me. 

When I was a child, I was constantly showered with attention and praises. I was told I was a beautiful little girl who would grow up to be a gorgeous woman, with my shiny chestnut locks, smooth skin, and sparkling brown eyes. Unfortunately, it seems that the wickedness of my family has poisoned me over the years. I cannot recall the last time I ran a comb through my long hair, or the last time my skin was free of dirt. My eyes lost their sparkle the first time my father sold my innocence for a few sous. 

I am damaged goods and Cosette is a porcelain doll. Of course Marius is enamored with her. I sigh and stand, moving slowly from my spot under the awning. I notice that it has stopped raining, and I wonder what time it is. My tired feet wear a familiar path to the café in the hopes Marius will be there with his companions. I pause at the window outside the café, and peer in through the smudged glass. There are a dozen or so tables scattered throughout the main room, close enough to create a cozy atmosphere but just far apart enough from each other that the patrons can speak comfortably. Plenty of people I do not recognize fill the café, but I know I have a better chance of seeing Marius in the upstairs room with his friends. I scan the faces anyway for the familiar smile that belongs to Marius. I could pick his chiseled cheekbones or perfect lips out of the darkest tavern.

I notice the grand clock inside, and the hour is not quite eleven yet. I catch a glimpse of myself in the warped window glass, and I barely recognize the haunted girl I see. My clothes are old and worn, and the wet scraps of my dress hang unattractively off of the angles of the bones that jut out from my skin. My eyes betray the distressed longing I feel for even a small bit of happiness in my life. My body is hungry, for food and for something else I cannot quite place. 

I fantasize that Marius is inside with his companions, and he spots me. His face lights up at the sight of me, and he immediately stands and strides toward the door of the café. He catches my eye through the window, and the look he gives me sends a shock through my core. For once, his eyes mirror what I hope he sees in mine- desire. Just as my heart starts to race, a crash brings me back to reality. The large front door is carelessly thrown open a few feet away from me, and a man stumbles out on to the street. I can almost see my daydream dissolving in front of me, and my heart breaks as I remember that Marius will never look at me the way I want whether I give him this stupid letter or not. 

“Eponine?”

I squint in the light from the café, trying to place the voice to the figure I see in front of me. He isn’t much taller than me. He is larger than I am, though most people are, and he seems familiar. I step closer to him, and the strong stench of alcohol assaults my senses. I realize the only person this can be. 

“Grantaire,” I state. He is one of Marius’ friends, a notorious drunkard. He uses alcohol and cynicism to define himself, but I know a front when I see one. I do not know him well enough to know why he puts up this obvious front. One thing I do know about him is that they say he has bedded more women in this town than he has not. I’m bitter that this carefree man, who would no doubt bed another before the night was over, interrupted my thoughts and deprived me of my imaginary Marius. I’m left with an uncomfortable restlessness. 

“Why are you out here in the night?” He asks. I choose not to answer.

“I can ask the same of you.”

“Have you seen Marius?” he slurs. “He hasn’t returned to our company this evening.” His cheeks are ruddy and red, the result of a long night of drinking. I roll my eyes and shake my head at his indulgence, but inwardly, I groan since I was about to ask him the same question. 

“I haven’t seen Marius since I took him to the home of that bourgeois earlier.” At my mention of Cosette, her letter to Marius burns against my skin and I wrap my arms tight around myself, as if Grantaire can see the letter glowing like an ember. Then I notice that his black curls are unkempt and fall over his eyes. Between his tresses and the drink I am not sure that he could see a bonfire if I lit one in front of him. I have the urge to destroy the letter in the puddle at my feet, but I weigh this option against asking Grantaire to help me find Marius. 

I hear the unmistakable clink of glass, which snaps me out of my reverie and an unopened bottle of wine rolls to a stop at my feet. 

“Why would your friends nominate the drunkest of you to locate Marius? Seems awfully counterproductive,” I snap.

“Sorry, ‘Ponine,” mumbles Grantaire. “I don’t believe my presence was desired. Enjolras says absinthe makes me behave too boldly to be seen with them. So I took a drink for the road.” 

For the first time, I notice that there is a burlap bag containing several more unopened bottles of wine slung over his shoulder, and an open bottle of something else in Grantaire’s hand. I’m surprised that Grantaire called me by the nickname Marius reserves for me. I decide that it doesn’t sound right coming from anyone but my love. 

My eyes narrow and I roughly ask, “Is that amount of drink not excessive, even for you?”

He grins. “My reputation precedes me!”

“Apparently it’s your only interesting trait, as it’s the only one of yours Marius ever describes,” I scowl. 

My dig has no effect on Grantaire. He only chuckles, leans himself against the wall of the café, and offers his glass bottle to me. I concede, and take a much larger gulp than I intended. Once, when I was maybe eleven, my parents nicked a bottle of white liquor from a Greek man who spent a night in our inn. I snuck out of bed that night and curiously took a sip of the liquor. I immediately regretted it, and I cannot stomach even the smell of licorice since. It’s remarkable that I keep what I realize is absinthe down. 

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and I pass the bottle back. I prop myself up against the wall next to Grantaire. We reach that awkward silence between acquaintances where we run out of topics for small talk. I look at Grantaire, really look at him. I can tell something is amiss. I pass the bottle back to him and I open my mouth to inquire, but he speaks before I have the chance to. 

“Shame, really, about all this.” I furrow my brow, but I cannot find the words to respond. Grantaire, even drunk, understands the question I haven’t spoken and answers it for me.   
“Well, it’s nearly the plot of an opera! The romantic young man who falls for a girl he does not know the night before he is to die, while his best friend pines after him in silence. Star-crossed lovers, indeed!” he dramatically explains with a mock outburst of tears. I still don’t speak. I blush at the acknowledgement of the love triangle I have created, which is apparently obvious to everyone but Marius. Grantaire’s talk of death scares me. 

“Before he is to die?” He softens when he notices my bewilderment. 

“Oh, ‘Ponine, you really didn’t know.” Even in his state, Grantaire grimaces and his words are heavy with the weight of pity. I shake my head, terrified to hear his explanation.   
“General Lamarque has passed. His funeral is in the morning, and Enjolras decided that we will begin our revolution during the ceremony.” A shadow crosses Grantaire’s expression. “He says Lamarque’s death was the spark we needed to fuel our plan,” he explains. “Our revolution is allegedly the only hope we commoners have left.” He spits the words out bitterly. 

The words they have been preaching for months will turn into actions come the morning light. I have been present for many public protestations and private conversations planning the rebellion. I know this rebellion is a suicide mission, though none of the boys have ever dared spoken those words aloud. It is almost as if it is an implicit agreement among them. A part of me thought their plans were just the musings of a restless and unsatisfied group of young men, but apparently, I underestimated their passion.   
I no longer have any tears left to cry from this wretched night. I grab the bottle from Grantaire’s hands, pleased when I hear the slosh that indicates that there is some of the liquid left for me. I put the bottle to my lips and chug. It nearly comes back up. 

In the instant it takes me to recognize the gravity of the situation, I make my decision. The letter to Marius from Cosette will remain my secret and my burden. If he thinks she did not leave him a letter, and I do not let him know that she did, he will surely join his comrades in battle. Enjolras will surely not let Marius sit out on their grand plans for the ghost of a girl. The inkling of a plan forms in my mind. 

Grantaire surprises me with a sudden embrace, and I drop the now-empty bottle. I am grateful for his kindness because I will surely fall if he lets go now. My knees go weak as I realize what I must do to get my fairytale ending with Marius…except fairytale might not be the most appropriate word. Everyone knows the greatest love story of all time ended with the young lovers dead in each other’s arms, at their own hands. Marius and I, we have it even easier. Death in battle sounds almost heroic. 

“Grantaire,” I say, looking up at him. I loop my arms around his neck. My heart feels as though it is cracking into pieces. “You said my story was the makings of an opera.”

“Indeed I did…beautiful Eponine.”

His flirtation catches me off guard. I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. I know that I will not find my Marius tonight. We live in the same massive old building, along with the majority of his university friends. But Marius will stay hidden from the world, lost in his own mind, as he often prefers. Even if I do find him, I will not really reach him. Not while he stays awake fueled by the hope that Cosette too will find him tonight. 

I worry that I might not be able to hold my heart together until the morning if I am on my own. When the suicide mission starts in the morning, I need to make it there to reunite with Marius. If the rumors are true, Grantaire will not spend his last night without a woman and in the morning I assume he will join his peers. I wonder why Grantaire, by far the least enthusiastic of the friends, is choosing to fight. What does he want to die for? Anyway, I think I can help the both of us. He gets his woman and I get my Marius. 

I close my eyes and pull Grantaire closer to me. I softly request, “Drink with me.” 

I draw my left hand up to his cheek, begging his response. As I do so, the folded letter shifts and scratches me. I don’t mind. It’s going to the grave with me tomorrow, where I won’t feel any pain. 

I open my eyes and I’m staring into his, which I notice are dark blue. For the first time in my life, I see desire. How often had I hoped for this moment from Marius, only to face repeated disappointments? Of course I know what sex is-- I have been whored out by my greedy family to men whose names I never ask and whose faces I never quite see—but I know nothing of desire. Sometimes I seek men out in an attempt to evoke a feeling in myself other than misery, but I forget those dandies just as quickly as I forget my paying patrons. Grantaire, however, is offering me what I have craved for years. 

Without breaking eye contact, I nod. We are still in front of the café, and the block we all call home is close. He picks me up easily, and his muscles barely ripple under my insignificant weight. I rest my head upon his shoulder as he carries me. I barely notice the chill in the air because of the heat of Grantaire’s body, and I hope that my wet dress isn’t dampening his own clothing. I notice that he takes care to avoid the puddles, and he holds me close so that I do not jostle. I vaguely wonder if Marius would be so careful…of course he would. 

Grantaire carries me up the stairs, and we arrive at my door, not his. I spend as little time as possible at my parents’ home, and I’ve come to inhabit a tiny living space abandoned by the unknown former owner. I have a mostly empty kitchen, a living room, washroom, and a tiny bedroom. I don’t even have a bed, just a bundle of blankets in various states of care. There are a few tables and chairs, and a great old sofa the previous occupant couldn’t be bothered to take when they left. 

I fix a fire in the small fireplace in the living room. I almost never light a fire, especially in the summer months, but I figure this is a special occasion. After a few minutes, it catches properly and roars to life. Grantaire hands me a blanket and kisses my forehead. The absinthe has started to go to my head, and I smile in response. I can feel the warmth his lips left on my forehead even after he pulls away. 

“Do you woo all of your lovers in this manner, Grantaire?” I tease. I clutch the blanket close to me. He turns toward the kitchen and answers so quietly that I might imagine it. 

“No, ‘Ponine. Just you.” The ache from my core comes back in full force. He sounds sad. I think that tonight, he needs this as badly as I do. 

I hear him rummaging in the kitchen for glasses, and I dash to my room to strip my dirty dress from my frame. The letter flutters to the floor. I toss my dress on top of it, and banish it from my mind. I dress myself in my thin cotton nightshirt, which is sleeveless and plain and only comes to my knees. A smirk graces my mouth as I realize I need not worry about modesty tonight. In the living room, I sit on the worn rug and soak in the heat from the fire. 

Grantaire returns with some bread, which I accept. My last supper, really, yet I don’t even feel the need to eat. All I feel is the longing that makes my heart race and my body throb. As he sits next to me, his eyes widen slightly when he notices my lack of proper clothing but he says nothing. He places two empty cups on the floor in front of us, and reaches a hand toward me. He touches my hair and pulls at the end of my ribbon until the knot unties. He lets my long hair down and runs his hands through it, allowing his fingers to graze my bare shoulders. I feel so base and vulnerable next to Grantaire in his schoolboy attire. 

“About that drink you requested,” he says. I nod, and he reaches for the burlap sack he deposited on the floor near the fireplace. He selects a dark merlot. He leans against an old decrepit sofa arranged in front of the fireplace. I sit facing him, my back to the crackling flames. The room is pitch dark save for the fire, which catches the twinkling of anticipation in our eyes. I pour the cups full to the brim, and hand the first cup to him. 

“Here’s to you,” I say. I raise the second cup of wine in my trembling right hand, as if in a toast. “And here’s to me.”

He smiles and clinks cups with me. I put the merlot to my lips and tilt my head, taking in as many mouthfuls of the dry, burning liquid as I can before my lungs gasp for air. I nearly finish the cup in one go. 

Not to be outdone, he quickly downs his wine as well. “When did you develop the drinking habits of a man, ‘Ponine?” Grantaire asks me with a smirk. 

Truthfully, since Marius first invited me to the café to meet his friends. I couldn’t count the nights I had spent in their company if I tried. With just the slightest trace of bitterness in my voice, I answer, “I see Marius is not the only man who fails to notice me.” I take a long drink straight from the bottle and Grantaire’s expression reveals his guilt, and something else. I utter a hollow laugh. 

“I would rather be ignored than see contempt in my would-be lover’s eyes,” he mentions quietly.

“Since when have you focused your attention on one person?” 

He blushes! “Quite a while. But as you’ve just recently discovered, it is rather futile to hold out hope for something you know can never happen, Eponine.” I think maybe this is what it means when people say that drunken words are one’s unspoken sober thoughts. 

I think on that for a moment. “Well, it’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” I remind him. We need each other, just this one night. My body, which was numb from the cold not long ago, is going numb again from the alcohol. I feel my fingers and toes buzz, and my tongue feels strange in my mouth. 

Grantaire parts his lips to speak, but I lean over him and push my lips to his before he can say a word. He draws me onto his lap, and I straddle him. I run my hands through his soft hair as he hungrily explores my mouth with his tongue. His hands are on the small of my back, supporting me and urging me. I imagine the jet black curls I’m touching are sandy and blonde. I kiss him passionately back, and I almost have myself fooled. Suddenly, a soft moan escapes from his lips, and I am reminded that Marius’ voice is not the one I hear. 

“I need more wine,” I decide. I realize how harsh this sounds so I add, “And you need less clothing, monsieur.” I smirk and swing myself off of Grantaire’s lap. I reposition myself in my place by the fire and I locate the wine. He extends a hand and I hand him the bottle. He drinks and hands it back. I take a drink and I watch Grantaire start to unbutton his vest. His hands slowly unfasten one glinting gold button from the deep green fabric. He pauses. He is experienced enough to know what this teasing is doing to me. I struggle to keep the expression on my face neutral as we continue this back-and-forth. 

By the time we finish the bottle, his vest is discarded and the buttons on his white shirt are undone. The shirt is hanging off of his shoulders in such a different way than my clothes cling to me. I only notice that he has stopped removing his clothing when I realize he has caught me gawking at his features. He is muscular without being bulky. Unlike Marius, who is quite skinny like me, Grantaire is in good shape. This is extra surprising considering alcohol is well known for having the opposite effect on most. 

“Got you all excited now, have I?” he teases me. I tear my eyes away from him and I hastily uncork another bottle of wine, this one a rosé. “Not too much wine, ‘Ponine. You won’t recover from that hangover for a week!”

I nearly spill the wine as I dissolve into laughter. Words carelessly flow from my mouth before I have the sense to stop them. “Grantaire, you do realize what you’ve just said? You must be as delusional as I am if you think any of us will be alive in a week’s time. With any luck we’ll still be drunk when we die!” I raise the bottle to drink again, but he grabs it from my hands and I notice he has gone as white as snow. Suddenly, I dare not even breathe. I want to avert my gaze from his pitiful face but even my eyes are frozen in place. It feels like an eternity before he speaks. 

“I’d just forgotten, and you managed to remind me again,” he whispers. The fire crackles loudly and our gaze breaks at last. He starts to drink the wine at an alarming speed but I don’t attempt to stop him. The tension in the room is unbearable. Suddenly, I understand. I am here with him because I need to pretend I am spending my last night in this world with Marius, and Grantaire needs to pretend that tonight is not his last night at all. His alcohol is his armor, and his sarcasm is his weapon against this oppressive world.

“Tomorrow, we both are going to fight at the barricade for someone other than ourselves, aren't we?” I ask. In the flickering light of the fire, I can’t tell if he nods in agreement or not. 

We are both silent for a few minutes. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I understand. We need each other.” Our eyes meet again, but we see each other for the first time. He puts the bottle down. I slowly stand up, steadying myself against the arm of the sofa as I rise. I giggle, for the wine is throwing me off balance. I clumsily bow down and extend my hand to Grantaire. “Monsieur?”

His hand takes mine, and he stands, careful not to topple me. I am relieved to see a small smile grace his features. “Sadness does not suit you, Grantaire.” He moves his hands to rest on my waist, and I can’t help but lean my body against his and rest my head on his shoulder. 

“Would you be offended if I told you that I think sadness suits you a little?” he asks. 

My mouth turns into a grim smile. “On the contrary, it seems that sadness seems to define me.”

“Actually, mademoiselle, I would say that strength defines you,” he says, pulling me onto the old sofa under him. Amusing that his observation of my fortitude is what makes my resolve crumble. 

Our lips meet fervently. My hands cannot touch enough of his skin at one time, nor his mine. Grantaire moves his lips to my neck, and I moan softly as he bites gently at the skin while he leaves a trail of kisses. I take the opportunity to gently tug his shirt the rest of the way off of his body. He takes the hint and removes the rest of his clothing slowly, teasing me further. I stand, pick up the bottle of wine, and see that there is still a bit left. 

He looks at me curiously, and I nod my head in the direction of the couch. He sits, and I stumble as I walk to him. I laugh and take a long draw from the bottle.   
“I saved the last for you,” I say as I ceremoniously hand him the bottle. I’m past intoxicated. As he polishes off the last few mouthfuls of wine, I return to straddle him on the sofa. His hands hold my face, and he laughs at my stupid grin. 

“Eponine, I don’t believe I have ever seen you this...carefree.” I shrug. I don’t want to talk, because talking leads to feelings, and I don’t want to have any feelings tonight. So I kiss him again, rather aggressively. 

His hands rest on either side of my legs for a few moments, and then they search for the hem of my nightshirt. My pulse quickens. I’m extremely aware of his hardness under me, and I let the slightest whimper pass through my lips. He tantalizingly slips my shirt up and over my head in one fluid motion. I never would have guessed him to be so sensual.   
We continue to kiss, and I use one hand to pleasure him. I see his eyes roll back in his head at my touch. He shifts his arm, and I tremble with anticipation. He caresses me for a second, then uses his fingers in such a dazzling way that I have to ask him to stop before I go over the edge too soon. I never bothered to ask, but his hands are too smooth to belong to a laborer, and too…talented…to belong to anyone but an artist or musician. 

“Please…” I beg, ceasing my own hand. He withdraws his from me, too. I support myself on his shoulders, bringing myself down onto him. A thousand thoughts race through my mind at once. The events of the day appear in a jumbled mess. I remember Marius, and the reason it is not him here with me. I wonder who Grantaire would prefer in my place. But Grantaire starts gently thrusting under me, and the empty, hollow ache of desire that I’ve carried for so long takes over. 

We move together for a little while, laughing once as we simultaneously try to kiss and end up bumping teeth instead. My chest and his neck are soon covered in love bites, and sweat glistens on both of us in the firelight. Fortunately, Grantaire is not one of those men who loses his functionality when he imbibes, but he is only human. His thrusts become more purposeful, and I can feel his hands grip me even tighter. The idea that he needs me, that his pleasure he is feeling is because of me…I know I’m close. 

I feel his release, and I come a few seconds later. We shudder together, riding out our waves of pleasure. I rest against him, my head again upon his shoulder. He moves one hand up to push my hair away from my face, and Grantaire kisses me again. This time, it is soft and gentle. It is the most intimate moment I’ve ever shared. 

A little while later, I awake in front of the dying fire. Grantaire and I lie naked on the floor in a mess of limbs and blankets and empty bottles. I slowly remove myself from his touch, trying not to wake the poor boy. My head throbs and my mouth aches for water. I freeze as I hear Grantaire mumble out a string of words, and I do a double take when I hear him tenderly speak of the god Apollo. I’m almost positive that is the friends’ nickname for…Enjolras? Maybe he understands me better than I thought. Maybe at dawn we really will go to the barricade together to fight for a cause that means little to us and everything to those we love.

I don’t want to wake him and interrupt his dreams, so I scurry to my bedroom, still in a drunken fog. I pick my dress up off of the floor, and I see the letter. 

With this damn letter, Cosette has turned me into someone I’m not, a drunk and a liar. I can’t even tell what the hour is, or even if it is closer to midnight or dawn. Dawn brings the start of the rebellion, and the end of my life…all of our lives. I sit on my pile of blankets and try to think.

I think of Grantaire and the kindness he has shown me. I think that he must be damaged goods, like I am, but I refuse to think about it any further. 

I think of Cosette and how her perfect life is, not unlike how I used to imagine mine would be. I think of Marius and his obsession with this girl, this doll. 

I think of the barricade that will rise, and I pray that despite everything, I get my fairytale ending. What a life we might have had together, if he had only seen me how I see him. 

I put on a pair of pants that were abandoned by a dandy months ago and knot a belt as tight as I can. I twist my hair into a knot until it all fits under a cap. My tears have evidently been replenished, and I cry again as I rip a dirty old sheet into long strips. I pull on my boots. I tie the strips around my chest, binding it as best I can. I pull on a plain shirt that could pass for a man’s, I suppose. 

I think of how much I love him. I love him. I love him.


End file.
